


Residual Anger

by Resoan



Series: Dragon Age Inquisition AU [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre Abelas/Fena'dea, Slight Solas/Velahari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fena'dea must sift through the memories and voices given her by the Well of Sorrows, but even so, it is a difficult task: even with Abelas actively assisting her. She sets aside such an endeavor when Velahari returns from her sojourn with Solas, her heart in tatters. Fena'dea is not pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Residual Anger

“ _No_.” It was a word Fena'dea had heard so many times in the previous hour she'd begun to wonder if Abelas knew any others; her eyes were closed: shut tight against the light of the room, and Abelas was at her side, attempting to help at least quiet the voices of the Well as they echoed inside her skull: sliding across the inside of her thoughts until she began to question whether they were her own.

At first, the knowledge and noises had been so overwhelming she'd scarcely been able to draw breath, though it had likely been more to do with the actual water of the Well than anything else; tattered pieces of elven had slipped from her tongue, fragments of words that held no meaning unless strung together properly, and while Fena'dea couldn't even begin to translate, if she listened intently enough, she could almost hear those same words in a tongue she could understand. “You need to focus on _one_ – do not allow them all to overwhelm you.”

Fena'dea took a deep breath as Abelas spoke, his voice strong and only adding to the cacophony that had long given her a headache – it was doubtful she'd ever be without one again. “You say that as though it's easy to manage,” Fena'dea replied sharply, and had her eyes been open, she'd have noticed the way Abelas's golden eyes narrowed dangerously, lips pursing tightly as he refused to let his frustration with her, with the entire _situation_ , manifest onto his features. “It doesn't matter how many times you say it when you don't explain _how_ I'm supposed to do it.” Fena'dea, not for the first time that evening, wished desperately that she'd been born with magic; mages constantly heard the whisperings of demons from across the Veil, yes? Perhaps if she'd learned how to shut those out of her mind, she'd better be able to focus on voices now...

“Enough,” Abelas finally declared, the ancient sentinel standing and stepping away, hands flexing at his sides – it was clear such a tic was to help alleviate the pent-up emotions he contained within himself. Fena'dea's lips twisted into a frown that nearly spilled over into a scowl, though she'd learned already that haranguing Abelas about continuing further only exacerbated his clear annoyance with her, and her lack of real progress. “We will _attempt_ to continue on the morrow,” Abelas informed her, the elf turning his back to his and hooking his hands there. Her eyes narrowed at his tone, at the poorly-veiled jab at her capability, though there was no reason to antagonize him: he had agreed to help, hadn't he? Even if he irritated her from time to time, they had made progress – just not as much as he apparently wished.

“Then let's hope my focus is better tomorrow,” Fena'dea eventually replied, her tone bordering on japing, though if Abelas noticed, he did not acknowledge it. She shook her head exasperatedly before heading out of the abandoned tower and towards the main structure of Skyhold itself, her thoughts drifting to things other than the ancient elven wisdom undoubtedly buried in her mind under layers and layers of disorienting voices.

She waved a quiet hello at Scout Harding who stood outside the tavern as usual, though she'd likely be heading to the barracks and her own bed soon enough; the sky was dark and dotted with stars, and Fena'dea herself would be turning in soon, too. Purple eyes narrowed when she noticed a familiar figure plodding up the steps of the courtyard, her posture defeated and her eyes rather lifeless; “Lethal'lan?” Fena'dea's hands steadied themselves on Velahari's shoulders, and the redhead looked up into her face: broken, lifeless, and so distraught Fena'dea felt her own shatter in her chest after a mere second of maintaining her gaze. “Your vallaslin...,” the rogue's voice trailed off then, eyes tracing over the unmarred skin where once the mage's devotion to Dirthamen, Keeper of Secrets, stood proud.

Velahari's lips parted several times to speak, though every time she had to force them closed again: her throat swelling shut and her eyes watery with unshed tears. It was clear to Fena'dea that she was in no position to be left alone, and so escorted her quietly through Skyhold and to her chambers; the tears came once the door was closed, and Fena'dea simply held the younger mage in her arms, lips a fierce frown and heart pounding uncertainly in her chest – what could she do to make the pain of whatever had transpired go away?

“He...he broke things off,” Velahari finally murmured against Fena'dea's shoulder, and the rogue's eyes widened. She'd _warned_ Solas: had threatened to flay him with her daggers if anything he did ever hurt the Inquisitor, and then he takes her off alone only to break her heart? It didn't make sense. They'd been so obviously happy – it had even prompted some embarrassing dialogue from Dorian and Sera; what had changed?

“But why?” Fena'dea asked quietly, softly, fingertips brushing down the soft, scarlet tendrils of the Inquisitor's hair. Her question prompted a renewal of the tears, and Fena'dea was suddenly very sorry she asked. Eventually, the younger elf cried herself into an unsteady slumber, and Fena'dea felt nothing but boiling rage fueling her veins as her eyes washed over a bare face – now streaked with tear stains.

The voices continued to echo inside of her head as she made her way back to the main corridor, some even telling her that was she was doing was unduly rash and ill-considered, but Fena'dea didn't _care_ about anything rash or ill-considered. Velahari was a sister to her, another of the people Fena'dea had been tasked with guarding, and she'd sooner be damned than allow Solas to pull this sort of stunt unscathed.

Varric was slumped in his chair in front of the fire, half-asleep though still managing to hold a quill in his hand, and had Fena'dea been in a better mood, she'd have offered him a smile and a wave, perhaps even stopped to chat a moment – but not right then. She didn't bother with politeness when she forced the door open to Solas's chamber: the heavy piece of oak banging rather loudly against the stone wall where it collided, and both occupants in the rotunda turned to look towards her as she approached, purple eyes narrowed and anger balling her hands into fists at her sides. Truly, it didn't matter what happened to her: she would have given any opportunity at her own happiness to ensure Velahari's, had already endured the Well of Sorrows to keep it safe from shemlen and to keep Velahari from paying the Well's price, but it seemed none of that mattered. And it was all because of _him_.

She could tell from the expression on Solas's face he knew why she was here, and though Fena'dea did find herself curious as to why _Abelas_ of all people was visiting with Solas, he wasn't her main priority at the moment. “ _You_.” The word veritably _seethed_ from her lips: not unlike froth billowing atop a stormy sea, and all at once, she could feel the overwhelming fury roiling inside her mind: a frenzied anger that was not her own, but that she could identify with, could _draw_ from when her own began to dissipate. “I _trusted_ you, and you hurt her. You couldn't have done more damage if you'd stabbed her in the back.” Angry tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and she didn't care to keep her voice down – a sleepy Dorian and intrigued Leliana peered inconspicuously from the upper floors, but Fena'dea didn't stop.

“Was it worth it? All the pain you've inflicted? Was it your intention all along? Play with her feelings, give her shreds of hope and affection, and then watch it all come tumbling down?” _That_ struck a nerve, she was pleased to see; Solas's jaw set, icy blue eyes hardened, though before he could say a word against her, Abelas had crossed the space and placed himself between them: his eyes on Fena'dea.

“You are being blinded by hateful memories, perhaps even willfully. Their emotions are not your own, not truly; the pain, the _anger_ comes from another age, and no matter what justification you see for it, I will not stand by and allow you to use their latent pain to fuel your own selfish actions.” Abelas looked well and truly angry, and while the anger Fena'dea herself felt did not quite abate, it did mix oddly with something that felt queerly like regret, or guilt.

The next time Fena'dea blinked she had somehow been dragged away from Solas's chamber, and was instead in Skyhold's herb garden, the open space chilly from the mountain air but otherwise unoccupied. “You abused the knowledge of the Vir'abelasan,” Abelas spoke crisply, a slight breeze ruffling the material of his hood.

“Going to take it away then? Do you even have that power?” Fena'dea replied, her tone more biting than she intended – in truth, she wished she hadn't spoken at all. Abelas's eyes flashed dangerously, jaw set and eyes glinting not unlike a predator about to pounce, though he was better at controlling his impulses than Fena'dea was.

“Take care with your words,” Abelas finally spoke through grit teeth, the bridge of his nose wrinkling the last points of his vallaslin. “My patience is not inexhaustible.” The silence between them then was tense, anxious: tacitly daring the other to make the slightest move or provocation, though Fena'dea forced herself to breathe in, to assess the situation, and to try something that was not bitterness or anger.

“She's hurting, Abelas,” Fena'dea finally murmured, her tone as tortured as the ancient had ever heard it. “And I can do nothing but watch.” She forced herself to look away from his eyes when she felt warm tears pushing at the corners of her eyes: to look up over Abelas's head until she found a sliver of the moon that hid behind a cloud not a moment later. Fena'dea did not notice, but something thoughtful had drained the anger from Abelas's features; long ago, another elf felt very similarly regarding a situation beyond his control, though he would be hard-pressed to give her details of that...occurrence.

When her teeth sunk into her bottom lip and her eyes closed, tears sliding silently down her cheeks, he did, however, stand at her side: an understanding and stalwart guardian who knew her situation better than she could possibly imagine.


End file.
